Ice Breaker
by Ferret2
Summary: DracoGinny. A tale of falling in love, losing your mind, and finding yourself.
1. Prologues

**Author's Note:** Yep, me again. I couldn't help it this time, I swear. Before you all go crazy on me and scream, "What happened to Fatum?!", chill. Nothing's happened to Fatum. And that's just it. NOTHING. I'm on a major creative juice drought, and this, oddly enough, was the only thing I could, ah, "squeeze out". 

I'm really sorry to anyone who's dying for some Fatum. I'm asking you all to please, PLEASE have some patience with me. School's being a major pain in the arse, and being a class officer isn't helping much either, what with all the functions I HAVE to go to and all. I don't know WHY this idea came to me, and why I'm evening going along with it, but please just bare with me. 

Anyways, the prologue doesn't really show any of the main plot, but I feel it's really necessary, in the sense of character and character development. ._. Does that make any sense? Basically this is a little in depth look at our two main characters, and eventually (hopefully) it'll all make sense as the story progresses (again, _hopefully_).   
  
So, without further ado... _"Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive."  
- Goo Goo Dolls, Iris_ **Ice Breaker** Prologue It was raining. He could tell from the tiny pitter patter sounds the droplets made against the brick walls. It had only just begun, he calculated, from the way the rain fell so lightly. It gradually began to grow harder, and he could soon hear the little pools of water it had made in the island's crevices. He enjoyed listening to the rain. Every droplet created a different sound, in different octaves. It was almost like it was speaking. Like every rainfall was a new story to tell. It'd seem to be the only time everyone would stop what they were doing, and the only one speaking was the rain. He'd always listen to what the rain had to say. It was like a lullaby - a calm, soothing song that always stilled his frenzied heart. Because that's the kind of kid he was, really - frantic and easily excited. He was always moving around, never really managing to stay in one place for long periods of time. It greatly annoyed his parents, that's for sure. At formal or house parties, he was a menace. But it wasn't like he didn't try to be the good, mature child his parents always tried to mold him to be. He tried, he really did. He just couldn't help it. It was like there was something deep inside of him, itching to be brought out, and every time he felt that energy being pushed down, it was like he would explode. Sometimes he did. And he paid dearly for it, too. He was always too emotional for his society's liking. A child of his lineage was supposed to be calm, impassive, and always on guard. And somehow, someway, he grew up to be just the opposite. He was loud, overly emotional, and weak. If it were not for his gift of a silver tongue and familiar good looks, he would've been hopeless. And he knew that. He was constantly reminded of that… Thunder. He remembered loving the thunder. Once, as a little boy, he'd be out in a rainstorm just like this, running around in circles, hoping to catch as much of the rain as he could. When the thunder came, the real fun began. While the rain would soothe his heart, hearing the booming roars from the sky would do the exact opposite, making his heart accelerate, and the feeling of sheer euphoria would almost always overcome him. Boom, the sky would say. "Boom!" he'd shout back. He would square off with the sky for as long as he could, but the sky would always manage to win. He was never that disappointed, however. He knew no one could beat it. He was just glad he could play. Then the lightning came, and the game was over. Lightning wasn't like thunder. Thunder was the warning; it was harmless and innocent. All thunder could do was roar. Like him. But lightning was dangerous. It was quick and painful and blinding. Lightning ripped through the sky, leaving behind it a tiny glow of the scar. You could hear the sky scream every time the lightning would break it; the thunder would grow louder, so loud it was sometimes unbearable. He would never stay out for the lightning. He never argued with his mother that it could hurt him. He would stay inside his room, huddled between the warmth of his bed and blankets, and watch from behind his window, safe and away from the danger. He'd watch the sky's tears splatter against the smooth surface of glass, and his heart would go out to it. What had the sky done to you, he'd ask the lightning. The lightning would never answer him, only continuing searing though the black emptiness. Now, years and years later, he'd still cry for the sky. And he'd continue to, until the day lightning would finally answer him. Boom. _I feel your pain_, he thought to the sky. _It's not fair, is it?_ Boom. _You never did anything wrong. You did everything he wanted you to do. You tried to be everything he wanted you to be. _ But it wasn't good enough. Nothing ever was. Boom. He got to his feet, and turned to the tiny hole that was his window. He was tall enough that he didn't have to tip-toe, but he did it anyway. He stretched out one hand, as far as it could go, while the other gripped the bars that held him there. He could feel the rain's sympathy cool on his hands. You're not alone either, the rain told him. And he smiled. "Maybe," he answered back. Solemnly, he withdrew his hand and turned, refusing to watch the sky in pain any longer. He opened his hand, and watched the droplets seep through the cracks in his palm, and down to the floor, where it mixed with the evaporating remains of his own tears. He'd cry at night. He had no reason to hide it anymore. He cried for the sky; the poor, helpless sky that never deserved the torture the lightning bestowed upon it. He cried for his father; the one man who deserved it less. He cried for himself. For growing up to be the naïve little child he swore he'd never be. For wanting to please him so badly. For becoming his father's sky. Behind him, the thunder roared with burning ferocity, and inside, he roared too. 

* * * 

Prologue: Deux It was raining again. She always found the rain to be the most depressing weather, and always hated it because of that. She didn't like the feeling of gloom in the atmosphere every time the rain would fall. It seemed to prove just how unsettling life really was. It was odd. The gentle pitter patter of raindrops against window pane would've put anybody to sleep, yet it only seemed to add to her bother. Why couldn't she just sleep, like every other sane person? Rain was the weather to sleep through, yet it kept her up, even when it was just a tiny sprinkle. Her head felt heavy with thought. Though there seemed to be too much zooming around in her mind, that she couldn't even comprehend them all. It was frustrating. All she wanted to do was sleep, but her mind wouldn't have any of it. So she stayed awake, that oddly familiar feeling of deep dissatisfaction creeping over her. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and had no idea why, ironically making her want to cry some more. It was not the first time she found herself lying awake at night, on the verge of tears. What was wrong with her? Wasn't she happy? Many on the outside looking in would agree that her life was the epitome of perfect. Steady and self-satisfying job, an always-there-for-you family, loving and romantic boyfriend, not to mention the dignity of moving out and living in her own flat in London. Only a true imbecile wouldn't be happy with that. Well, color her imbecilic. She shifted from her position in her bed, nearly knocking her pillow down in the process. It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't get comfortable. She got to the point of thinking she never would. What was wrong with her, anyway? Most women her age would kill for a life like her's, yet here she is, not having the decency enough to love it, let alone be content with it. Why wasn't she happy? Was there something missing? _Can_ there be something missing in a perfect life? Maybe that's it. She didn't want a perfect life. She didn't want the comfort of always knowing exactly when her parents would call, or whenever Greg would "casually" drop in, or exactly what would be in her entrance tests. She wanted adventure, not boring routines, every single day. Is that being selfish? Hating this oh-so-perfect and truly blessed life for something else? Was it _wrong_ to want something else? She lifted her hand, using the back to wipe away the tears she didn't even realize were falling freely. The pillow around her head felt damp, and she wondered, not for the first time, how long she had been crying. Her brother would be marrying soon. It was a great shocker to everyone, really. Out of all of her brothers - and there was a _lot_ - he was the last person she ever thought would tie the knot. He never took anything seriously, and she'd be damned if he ever even _saw_ a wedding band. Yet there he was, smiling happily with one long arm wrapped around his equally grinning fiance on the picture he sent with his letter. It was hard to tell who looked happier. She figured she should've known. They were always interacting on the pitch - it only made sense they'd have the same chemistry on the ground. She was happy for them. She really was. But she couldn't help feeling a tiny flame of envy ignite whenever she stole a glance at their photo, or the burning desire to hurl it in her fireplace. She wanted that. Not the whole prospect of getting married, because Merlin knows she's way too young, but their happiness. Why couldn't _she_ smile like that anymore? Did she ever? Maybe something _was_ wrong with her. Yes, that was it. She's just insane, that's all. Funny how much more comforting questioning her sanity was, than thinking she was fine but unhappy. The rain grew harder, and she felt her skin tingle beneath her layers of blankets. She wrapped her arms around herself on impulse, and felt the raised goosebumps at her fingertips. Were those from the cold, or her crying? Thunder. She shuddered, hearing the loud boom echo inside the walls of her bedroom. Oh, how much she wanted to sleep. Then she'd be able to get away from the rain, the thunder, her thoughts… She turned, and caught sight of the photo conventiently propped up on her bedside table. The couple smiled and waved at her, then frowned, seeing the pained look suddenly flash across her face. With a loud sniff, she turned sharply, and fought her hardest to stop the tears that were already flowing. Out of her window, the sky flashed white with lightning, and the overwhelming roar of thunder filled her ears. 


	2. In the Dark

_"Cuz I'm looking and I just can't see what's in front of me."_  
— Hoobastank, Crawling in the Dark

I.In the Dark

The next day came like Ginny knew it would. Sunlight poured through the cracks in her curtains, spilling over her bed and through her covers, generally heating her up like an oven would a bun. Even through her eyelids she could see the sun's intensity, and she found herself wondering where the rain clouds went.

How ironic.

She rolled over without lifting an eye, refusing to acknowledge that it was, in fact, a new day. Maybe if she pretended real hard it would be night again.

No such luck.

She sat up, grunting her displeasure, and dared to crack open an eye. It was definitely day, alright. She flinched as the sunlight invaded her pupils, stinging them a little. The sun shouldn't be allowed to be that bright. _Ever._

Frowning, she threw her covers off and trudged out of bed, all the while through half-lidded eyes. She paused only when she heard the soft tune of birds chirping their song from out of her window. She made her way through the pile of clothes and gently placed both palms on her heated glass. Seeing an audience, the birds chirped louder and more enthusiastically. In one swift motion, the window was shut and the noise was gone.

A sardonic smile crept over her mouth, and for a moment, she felt sheer bliss. That is, until her eyes fell to the old photograph and torn invitation lying innocently on her bedside table. And in that brief second, the moment was gone, and her miseries were staring her in the face once again.

The couple in the photograph were gazing at her tentatively, silent concern wavering between animate and inanimate. Perhaps still worried about her tearful night, she thought, and she felt a slight tinge of guilt for worrying them, real or not.

"I'm fine," she wanted to say, to make them feel better, but couldn't bring herself to speak the lie. She was not fine. She hadn't been for a long while now, she knew. It was apparent in the way she went about thing, drifting along like none of it ever really mattered. And maybe it didn't, but she did it anyway.

Though it's not like she forces that dark rain cloud to form over her. She didn't like it any more than the people around her did. She just couldn't help it.

The couple waited for her reassurance, the few simple words to lift the burden of worrying and go back to fawning over each other and being madly in love. But it never came.

"Sorry," she told them, and was not surprised to find she didn't really mean it.

x x x

He was running, feet bare, down along a vast meadow of bright colors. The field looked endless, a sea of greens and yellows and whites flowing and reaching as far as he could see. Before him, the sun beamed, shining merrily like a beacon that called to him. He ran faster and faster, his heart accelerating in excitement as the sun grew closer.

There was a song playing inside his head, the tempo increasing as much as his heartbeat did. The sound waves brought only content in him, and only faster did he run, his longing and desire to reach the sun overcoming him. The sun, in turn, shined brighter, it's long and golden rays reaching out for him. He was almost there, he could feel it; the warmth radiating from the sun, the cool wind that swept against him, the soft dews soaking his bare feet as he ran faster, and faster still.

He was so close.

His arms flew up, fingers itchy to grasp the sun, and jumped, as high as he could. So high that he was flying. He flew towards the sun, eyes squinted and set, head bent in skill, narrowing his body so much so that he cut through the wind blowing against him. Within a beat, his arm thrust out again, the other gripping a handle that wasn't there. His hand, tense and determined, clawed for the sun, the music in his ears turning sharply into a deafening ring.

And then it was gone.

He woke up, not with a jump or in start, but by simply lifting his eyelids. His left hand began to burn, and he looked and saw the fresh morning sunlight there, resting lightly against the paleness of skin. He made no attempt to move it.

He was not surprised at all by his dreams.

Oh, how he wanted to sleep and dream again. Dream of things that never have and never would, or open fields that held no boundaries, or brightly colored canaries that sang only for him. He wanted to dream of reality, the irony of it all, and dream of the things he could've done to better it. Perhaps to dream of love, for the mystery of it all still confused him. There's always to dream of the past, because he knew life held no future for him.

Yes, he wanted to dream. But as much as the fatigue weighed him down, or how much it burned to keep his eyes open, he would not. He will not succumb to the sleep that called to him, or the dreams that awaited him.

He would not.

And yet, how it called to him. Waiting there, in the corner of his mind, taunting and teasing with the solace it could offer. In no time at all, his eyelids grew heavy, and his head began to droop.

A sharp, sadistic laugh rang somewhere in the depths of his mind, jarring and insulting like it always was.

"I am _not_ weak," he thought aloud, his voice hoarse from lack of use. His body shook, his breaths coming out in deep shudders.

"I'm not," he whimpered, replying to an insult that only he heard. Dilated gray eyes darted around his prison, searching for the escape that wasn't there. Breathing sharply, his eyes fell upon an invisible figure that towered over him. Fear. Shame. Panic.

"You're wrong," he argued. Tears stained his cheeks and he winced as the blinding pain came running back. "I'm sorry," he cried out, but it went unheard. The pain was everywhere now, and he shook from the intensity of it.

And then it was gone, and his tears had stopped. He sniffed, breathing in the dust and cold smell of steel. His eyes fell to back to his hand, the sunlight so bright that it made his skin almost blinding. Slowly, he turned his hand, palm up, enclosing his fingers around the sunlight, as if to hold it there.

And he smiled.

x x x

She should just stay home. It was the sensible thing to do: stay home, catch up on her soaps, read a little of her novel, vegetate. Nevermind her paycheck. Nevermind the rent. Petty things like that can wait for a little 'me' time.

"Yeah, right." Ginny sighed, donning her usual professional attire — a pale blue blouse, and knee-length blue skirt — grabbed a cup of steaming hot coffee — possibly the one Muggle beverage Ginny tolerated — and Apparated.

For anyone who's ever Apparated, the experience never quite feels the same. It's hardly like Flooing, or even traveling by Portkey. Forms of transportation like that were stagnant, and really quite boring.

Perhaps that was why Ginny loved to Apparate. If any one of her family members were asked, they would all agree it was she who loved to pop in and out of thin air — even beating Fred and George for the record of how many times you can go in a minute. It wasn't a little phase for her, like it was for Fred and George, who grew bored of it after a while.

No, she was always Apparating every chance she got. It was an obsession — her temporary high, if you will. It was a rush, to put it frankly. And yet, those four letters, no matter how precise they may seem, still lacked that certain 'zing' to do the feeling any justice. It was a tidal wave, quick and refreshing, yet paced and not at all overwhelming.

Time seemed to stop when you Apparate. It was like a vortex of some sort would open up, and, in that single second, the world around you disappears. Then, in a moment that lasted a million moments, wind, dust, and everything else in the world tangible yet invisible would swirl around you, like you were falling from the clouds. Every moment, Ginny cherished, taking the peaceful solace for granted to think of things she would normally find no time to think about. Like what exactly is in butterbeer? And why did Nearly Headless Nick get nearly headless in the first place?

But this Apparation, her mind was on, of all things, her office. The cozy little room with the horrible view, lousy lighting, and monstrous wallpaper.

And yet she loved it. She loved it like a four year old would a tree house. It was her sanctuary. Her safe haven. The one room she could run to when the world was ugly.

Funny how it was also the room that housed her most heaviest of burdens.

And so perhaps she should've listened to her mother.

"Meet a nice man," her mother would always say. "Let him court you, marry him, and have kids." Her mother was old-fashioned like that. But Ginny didn't want to have marry and have kids — at least not yet. She was only 24! She had her whole life ahead of her, and she did not plan on becoming a housewife up to her knees in kids like her mother, bless her heart, wanted her to be. But in her mother's baby-deluded words was a kernel of sense. Times were difficult. Let a man love and support you. It was safe. It was sensible.

It was boring.

Curse her adventurous spirit. Ginny was not one for safety. Her heart yearned to be reckless. It begged for excitement. Not the ho-hum of a life she was living now. No, it seemed that every way she turn led to another dead end.

She was trapped. Caged in a world that hated her as equally as she it. She wondered if there would be a day she'd make the right turn.

She arrived at her destination quicker than she expected, causing her thoughts to make a loud screech as it was forced to hit the breaks. She blinked at the door a feet before her, the big black words jumping up to meet her against the glass.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley," it read, in an ugly bold font, with the words, "Wizard Healer and Psychologist" scripted in smaller letters beneath it.

She frowned at the words. It was so simple. So plain. So utterly boring that she actually felt like ripping the words right off. She couldn't, though. Not with the Anti-erasing Spell she cast a few months ago acting like some invisible shield.

"Oh well," she sighed, pushed the door open, then stepped inside.

She blinked. Her eyes stung while her pupils dilated, adjusting to the sudden darkness of the tiny office. The blinds were drawn down, and night itself seemed to inhabit the space, the depths reaching even blacker than black. There was only one light in the room — a tiny red cluster of embers at the end of a cigarette. Currently puffing that cigarette was a man. At least, Ginny _thought_ it was a man. The little cigarette hardly provided enough light to be sure, but from what she could see, it was a very tall man, currently perched atop her desk, broad shoulders hunched and face hidden.

"Who are you?" she asked in her strong, I'm-not-afraid-of-you voice. Her hand found her wand in no time. "How did you get in here?"

The man stuffed in mid-puff, lifting his head to gaze at her. Sharp and impossibly bright eyes gleamed at her, like little blue stars that actually twinkled — though not at all in that comforting, feel-all-nice-and-fluffy-inside way. His gaze was intense, and so highly unnerving that Ginny found it hard not to step back in caution. The man hopped off her desk, only to lean against it, all the while never dropping his gaze.

"Miss Weasley, I presume?" the man asked, cigarette bobbing as his mouth formed the words. His voice was deep, as intense as his eyes, and almost velvety. Though Ginny found no comfort in his voice.

"Who are you?" Ginny's tone was carefully adamant. She would _not_ budge til he bent first.

The man chuckled lightly, creating little clouds of smoke around his head. Two slender fingers reached up to pluck the little stick from his mouth, bringing it down so that his head was no longer within the cigarette's circle of light. Somehow not being able to see his face made it all too difficult to stay calm and brave.

"Either tell me who you are," Ginny said, grinding out the words through gritted teeth, "or get the hell out."

But he only chuckled more. She watched as he twirled the cigarette in his fingers, and flinched when he put it out in his other, open palm. The total darkness only lasted a few seconds; there was a faint clicking sound, and the man lit up another one. He then proceeded to make little ghostly shapes from the cigarette smoke.

Ginny's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Please do not smoke in my office."

She saw his mouth form into a sneer some would label triumphant. "So you _are_ Ginevra Weasley."

"And you are?"

He did not answer her right away. It was like the confirmation of her identity was all that was needed to drop the masquerades, and soon the whole room was lit, from the smallest candle to the tallest lamp. Ginny held her hands up to shield the blinding light; her eyes were forced to adjust, yet again. After a few moments, the brightness dimmed, til only the four corner lamps and the lamp on her desk were lit.

"You can call me Gavin."

It was her first real look at him. He was definitely as tall as she pegged him to be, possibly around 6'2". He couldn't be any older than 28, though looked too mature to be her age. His complexion was fair and he wore a long, black leather duster with the collars hitched up. Underneath she spotted a black t-shirt and equally black jeans. His hair was long, straight, and dirty blonde. To top off the boyish look were the bright blue eyes she found so scary in the dark, and just as cold in the light.

"Gavin," Ginny repeated, finding it uncomfortable underneath his stare. "And what's your purpose here, Mister Gavin?"

The man named Gavin chuckled again, smoke clouds and all. "Just Gavin," he told her, like she was some idiot child. "And my purpose, Miss Weasley, is to find you." He held out his hands. "As you can see, I've already found you."

"I'm happy for you."

Gavin's grin did not falter. "As am I." He paused, only to grin more. "Unfortunately, my job's not finished yet," he continued, and Ginny shifted. People really shouldn't be allowed to look at someone like he was looking at her.

"And what may that unfinished part be?" she chided. Best to be on with it, the way she figured. Besides, it was only one swift movement before her wand would be in between them.

Gavin's grin grew, though his eyes radiated nothing but seriousness. "I'm here with a proposition."

Bright blue eyes glinted. Canines were bared.

She knew she should've stayed home.

x x x

They were talking about him again. It was easy to tell. Every time they spoke of him, their voices would reach a certain tone; a sort of mix between sympathy and disdain. That's what he was to them, he supposed. A burden, guilt being the only thing keeping him within their protective walls.

Not that he minded. But like he was given a choice in the matter anyway. They didn't trust him. No one ever did.

And why should they, really? They didn't trust him when everyone thought him sane, why trust him now when he's labeled the opposite?

It was funny, the first time they told him. It wasn't how a doctor would telling a patient that they were suffering from some foreign, no-cure disease. They spoke to him with words blunt enough for a child, yet sharp enough to sting all the while.

"You're insane," they said. In exactly those words. The two words that changed everything.

Suddenly he didn't matter.

x x x

"Proposition?"

Gavin's canines hid from view as his grin faded. "I guess you can say I'm here to hire you. Your talents are required."

Mistrust was all over Ginny's face. "What are you on about?" She stared at him like he was insane, and for all she knew, he might as well be.

Gavin fumbled with his cigarette. "I think, perhaps, it might help if I explain a few things."

"Please do," said Ginny, folding her arms across her chest. He was really starting to get on her nerves.

Gavin looked a bit uncomfortable at first, then took a quick puff before proceeding. "My name is Gavin," he began formally, a bit too much, as it sounded to Ginny like he's said it all before. "I am a special agent for the Ministry. Specifically, the Department of Mysteries."

"You're an Unspeakable."

Gavin looked at her, surprised. "Yes," he said, nodding slowly. "That I am." Her interruption seemed to have broken his groove, and he struggled to gain momentum. "My mission here is to locate and recruit you for a special assignment the Ministry has been working on."

The mentioning of the Ministry and missions stung at Ginny's heart, and she found her anger boil. Bad, bad memories she'd rather just leave alone. How dare he force them back in her mind.

"I'd rather not," she answered curtly, and motioned towards her door. "Please leave."

Gavin remained where he was, suddenly looking very serious. "Look, I don't think you quite realize the gravity of the situation here."

"You're absolutely right," said Ginny. "I don't know the situation — I don't want to know the situation, so please get out of my office or I will be forced to do so myself."

Gavin gave her a bemused sort of smile before standing up, only to lean against the desk. "I'm afraid I can't take 'no' for an answer," he told her quietly.

"Then don't ask me," she replied, just as quiet.

He let out a short chuckle. "I admire your gall, Miss Weasley, I really do. But it won't be that easy to get rid of me. My assignment was clear." He fixed her an intense stare. "We need you."

"Tough," she snapped. She had just about enough of _his_ gall.

He surprised her when he pushed himself off of the desk and moved towards her. She stepped back, but two strong arms reached out and held her in place. "Let me put it this way, _Ginny_," he said, his faces only inches away from her own. "If I don't get any cooperation from you, I'm going to have to do something I'm going to really regret."

Ginny met his glare head-on. "And if you don't get your hands off of me," she seethed, "I'll have no problem doing it for you."

He grinned and did as he was told. He moved back a few steps and held his hands up in surrender. "Fiesty," he said, looking very impressed. "They weren't kidding when they said you had spunk."

"Get out."

"I'm not finished."

"I think you are."

"You're an Empath," Gavin said suddenly, making Ginny start.

She stared at him, shocked. "What?"

"You're an Empath," he repeated, looking pleased at having broken her momentum. "You're one of the few lucky beings with the ability to sense and analyze another's feelings and motives. You can get into someone's mind and see what they see, feel what they feel, know what they know — "

"I know what an Empath can do," snapped Ginny. "But how the hell did you know?" Her mind was reeling and frantic. How could he have known? The secret was so well kept…

"I work in the Ministry," he smiled faintly. "We have records."

Ginny's glare was nearly venomous. "But of course," she sneered. Yet another reason to hate the Ministry, she thought darkly.

"We need you," Gavin said again.

"Forgive me for not caring," Ginny replied harshly.

"Your abilities are essential to our cause — "

"Still not caring."

"That doesn't matter," said Gavin, his tone growing more urgent by the second. "Your cooperation is vital. Without it, people will die."

Ginny gave him a long and scrutinizing stare. "What do you mean?" she asked quietly.

"Just what I said," he answered, relieved to have calmed her down.

She stared at him. "You're bluffing."

"I don't bluff about death," he answered.

She looked away, a worry line creasing her forehead as she thought hard. When she spoke next, her voice was small and insecure. "Why me?"

"You're the best qualified," explained Gavin. "Very few people are born with this ability, and even fewer who study in a field closely related to it." He motioned towards the sign on her door, more specifically, the words 'psychologist'.

Ginny's gaze sank to her feet. "What do you want?"

If possible, Gavin's expression turned even graver. "Are you familiar with the name Draco Malfoy?"

x x x

Walking into the darkened room, Gavin relied on sheer memory to guide his way to his desk. The vague outline of a tall figure stood to the side of the room, watching, waiting. Only after he had seated himself, did Gavin regard the towering form.

"She's in."

A/N: Better late than never. 


End file.
